Chaos Theory
by Alias424
Summary: Why do you always have to punish the rest of us by giving him more clinic hours? HouseCuddy
1. Annoyance

**Because I miss watching new House episodes. And the clinic patients. And I'm really starting to wonder what the hell I did in my free time before I started writing Huddy fic...**

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**Annoyance**

"Here, here, and here, and here, and sometimes… here."

Each spot was punctuated with a jab to an entirely different part of the body: head, chest, stomach, left leg, right elbow. Barely five minutes into clinic duty and House already had a frontrunner for Most Annoying Patient. Everyone else he saw that day was going to have their work cut out for them if they wanted to stay in the race—though knowing the usual slime and grime that drudged into the clinic on a daily basis, each and every patient would probably take that as a personal challenge.

"If it really hurts in all those places, there's a good chance you'll be dead in about three seconds," House stated coolly, holding out his watch and making a show of studying it.

The boy's already big eyes widened almost impossibly further. "It only _sometimes _hurts here," he squeaked out, poking himself directly in the center of a more sugar- than cherry-scented stain on his stomach—the gesture, _miraculously_, not appearing to cause any pain. The boy cautiously watched the seconds tick by on House's watch, seeming to hope that this admission would make everything instantly better.

"Yeah?" Away went the watch—kids may be stupid, but he was betting that even this one could count past three. "When?"

Obviously out of danger as far as imminent death was concerned, the boy plucked up his courage and crossed his arms over his pink-splotched t-shirt, eyes suddenly dangerous—or as dangerous as a Kool-Aid-drinking kindergartener's could get. "When Logan punches me."

There had been no eye contact, no pointing, but, of course, the response from across the room was automatic, loud and defiant. "I do not!"

"Do too!"

"Do not!"

"Quick tip," House interjected, throwing a glance toward the far side of the room, the chair and the three small wriggling bodies piled on top of it. "Next time—keep your mouth shut."

The eldest, trying his damndest to look both tough and innocent and managing to not quite hit either, jutted out his chin, awkwardly hiking up the pudgy baby that gurgled on his lap. Drool dribbled from the baby's chin and onto the shoulder of the toddler squished beside the boy on the chair, but the kid either didn't notice the impromptu shower or simply didn't care, continuing to stare, unblinking, while solemnly sucking his thumb.

"I only punch him when he deserves it," Tough Guy muttered at last, refusing to make eye contact.

"What's he do? Steal your girlfriends?"

Gleeful giggles mixed with the crinkling of paper as Kool-Aid squirmed on the exam table—both hands over his mouth as if to keep himself from bursting, but the joyful exclamation still finding its way through his fingers. "Logan gots a girlfriend!"

"He's annoying," the older boy responded flatly, looking from his brother to House with a resigned sigh.

Filled with an overwhelming urge to silence the still-shouting boy beside him by whatever means possible, House nodded. "With you so far."

"Logan gots a girlfriend!! Logan gots—"

Tough Guy could apparently only take so much. "Shut _up_, Cody!"

Kool-Aid did quiet, for an instant, but it wasn't immediately noticeable through the sudden, piercing shriek that erupted from the small mouth of his youngest brother. Somewhere close by, glass was shattering—had to be, the way the pitch heightened as the wail amplified: either an audition for the world's worst opera singer or some ancient war-cry aimed at deafening all opponents within a hundred-yard radius. The sound continued, somewhat softer after the initial rush of energy subsided, the baby red-faced and kicking as Tough Guy clung to him tightly: that gesture, the split-second break in the argument, and Thumb-Sucker languidly (finally) turning his unblinking attention in its direction, were the only signs that the three were even aware of the sound at all.

Maybe it was their call to arms. The battle raged on, only louder.

"_You_ shut up! Stupid-head!"

"Fart face!"

"Booger breath!"

"Nice," House broke in, nodding at Kool-Aid before Tough Guy could take a breath or think of a fitting response. "Just wait until you start learning all the really _cool_ insults."

The idea seemed to throw both kids for a loop. Tough Guy was practically salivating—as if House had not only offered up a treasure trove of secret little brother torture techniques, but had also promised that anyone who used them correctly could never be caught. Kool-Aid, still innocent (or maybe stupid) enough, turned towards House, cocking his head inquisitively. "Like what?"

"Uh-oh."

Even over the screaming and in such a babied voice, the careful exclamation rang loud and clear. Thumb-Sucker had let the appendage drop to the corner of his mouth, his free arm outstretched, reaching past The Screamer with its little index finger pointed directly at the door. House may never have seen that exact look on such a small face, but even so, the expression was unmistakable: fear of rejection and castration, dread, and something like awe, all rolled into one.

House waited, grinning, could probably count down the seconds to when the voice would come, perfectly tinged with outrage and disbelief: three, two….

"What is going on in here?"

"Aww, Mooooom," he whined, stretching the vowel out as long as he deemed safe while Cuddy was glaring at him in just that way (and maybe even a little bit longer). "Just hanging out with the guys."

"_She's_ your mom?" Tough Guy asked, giving Cuddy a thorough, almost reverent, once-over—even though he should've been _way_ too young to even know where to look, much less appreciate even a fraction of the view. The _instant_ this kid's hormones kicked in, the entire female population of New Jersey was going to run, screaming, for the hills.

Kool-Aid was gaping, though due to a completely different revelation. "She's gotta be like a million years old!"

"And that's only like 40 in wicked witch years." Hooking his cane over his arm, House stood, grabbing The Screamer and shoving the baby into Cuddy's arms. "Here. This one needs a woman's touch."

Frowning and more than a little taken aback (though it might have only been because he had actually admitted believing she was a woman), Cuddy fumbled to get a good grip on the writhing bundle of flailing arms and kicking legs. It didn't take much maneuvering. The Screamer gave one last weak cry and then began to quiet so quickly, House was almost sure black magic must have somehow been involved. No one could have looked more surprised at the baby's sudden docility than Cuddy herself, who simply stared at the chubby little demon before shifting him into a better position on her hip. Hiccupping, The Screamer hid his tear- and drool-stained face in the shoulder of her lab-coat, and Cuddy brought a hand up to his little back, rubbing gently, automatically, without seeming to realize the action.

"Where is their mother?"

She spoke out of the corner of her mouth, as if the question were riddled with words too scathing for young ears. Her eyes were two blue flames, the heat there so condensed that when she turned to him, House could almost feel the bristle and oozing of blisters. He shifted his gaze back to her hand, still caressing the baby so tenderly, so naturally, it seemed to exist for no other purpose.

House blinked, remembered the question hanging in the air between them.

"Praying at the porcelain altar, courtesy of number…." He paused to sweep the room for a quick headcount: The Screamer, Kool-Aid, Thumb-Sucker, Tough Guy. "…five. You'd think that after the first four bundles of joy, she'd—"

Cuddy's gasp was sharp, almost a yelp, and startling, so close to his ear. He looked over just in time to see her pull The Screamer from where he had latched his mouth onto her right breast. The baby squealed, still sucking at the air, little hands pawing at Cuddy's chest as he fussed and twisted in her grasp. There was a small (distracting) dark spot on Cuddy's shirt—an almost-perfect circle, complete with teeth-marks, just over the nipple—and The Screamer managed press his lips to it once more before Cuddy tugged him away.

The smirk that House felt pull at his mouth simply couldn't be helped. "Looks like I'm not the only fan of your assets."

"Is _assets_ like _ass_?" This was Tough Guy: nonchalant, as if the word were the first he said every morning after downing Mom's homemade oatmeal and shaving his milk moustache with the back of his hand.

"Ooh! I'm telling you said that!"

"Sometimes," House mused, ignoring Kool-Aid completely. "But in this case—"

He would've thought it too dangerous for Cuddy to take a hand off the half-pint Don Juan—still hell-bent on getting up close and personal with the girls—but he would have been very, very wrong. Her arm cut across him so fast that he was nearly winded. "Don't you dare."

"I'm gonna telllll!"

"Up!" The small voice came from below him, and House looked down to see two large eyes staring pleadingly up at him. Thumb-Sucker had obviously squirmed down from his chair sometime during the commotion and now not only had taken his thumb out of his mouth, but was also raising both arms insistently in House's direction. "Up!"

"What? I didn't say anything _bad_…."

"Did too! You said _ass_!"

"Ha! So did you!"

"He's kidding, right?" House tilted his head towards Cuddy, still eyeing Thumb-Sucker warily. The kid was practically on his tip-toes, had his arms stretched to the limit but still reached no where near House's waist. It shouldn't have posed much of a threat, but he couldn't be too careful. "_You_ take him."

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Yeah, I'll get right on that," Cuddy answered dryly, trying one last time to keep the baby's hands and mouth off her chest and finally giving in with an exasperated sigh.

The swift and overwhelming anger House felt towards those ten small fingers (not to mention the lips) was simply delayed annoyance at their loud and drool-covered owner.

Grimacing as The Screamer reached out and squeezed, Cuddy placed a gentle hand on top of Thumb-Sucker's head. The tyke seemed to have already resigned himself to the fate of the middle child, understanding that the small gesture was as good as it was going to get with his baby brother around. He popped his thumb back into his mouth and went back to staring.

Reaching around Cuddy, House cracked open the door and stuck his head out. "Nurse!"

The sound seemed to suck all other noise from the room: the bickering brothers quieted, even the baby stopped searching for his meal ticket, startled.

Cuddy was thin-lipped, fierce, and about half-a-second from reading him the riot act when Brenda appeared in the doorway, a hand on her hip. "You bellowed?"

"Mom's in the john. Kids need a babysitter."

"They're not the only ones," Cuddy muttered, turning to hand The Screamer over to Brenda, murmuring an apology and something about finance reports. Thumb-Sucker stepped back, retreating to his brothers before he could suffer a similar fate—or maybe simply in anticipation of what was to come. The baby glanced from one woman to the other, lower lip trembling.

"I wouldn't do that…" House managed to get out before The Screamer once again lived up to his name, so stridently this time that House had to shout to be heard over the racket. "Can't give him Chicken McNuggets after he's sampled the breast at Chez Cuddy. Kid's a connoisseur."

Brenda didn't waste any malice on him, turning instead to Cuddy, where the effects of any look or remark would at least be felt and the guilt was already oozing. "Why do you always have to punish the rest of us by giving him more clinic hours?"

"I stopped responding "appropriately" to spankings," House retorted before Cuddy had a chance, making sure to exaggerate with air quotes. "Or so she said."

"You wouldn't need to be punished at all if you'd behave," Cuddy hissed, smacking him with the back of her hand even while the corners of her mouth twitched—almost in a smile.

"_You_ wouldn't be begging me to behave if—"

"House."

Cuddy said his name with an air of warning, nodded pointedly at the kids—hanging on their every word like little monkeys and with about as much understanding, though seeming to sense that there was something in the mysterious grown-up tone that was worth paying attention to. Brenda was smirking, an eyebrow raised—probably trying to read way more between the lines than was actually there (and _anything_ was more than nothing at all).

A hand was suddenly on his arm and Cuddy's head was tilted close to his (the jolt he felt here _wasn't_ a thrill—only momentary panic at finding himself so close to the devil). "Grow up. And do your job."

There was a gentle breeze that carried the swift scent of perfume. Movement. The door clicked shut behind her, the clacking of her heels still audible for a few seconds more.

"You're in _trouble_," Kool-Aid sing-songed joyfully— seemingly thrilled at seeing this fate cast on someone else.

"So are you," House grunted, twirling his cane. "You're stuck with Nurse Ratched."

Brenda's fierce stare might have been fixed on him, but the two older brothers shared worried glances and even the baby seemed to think it best to quiet. "Better with me than Doctor—"

But House was already out the door.

Cuddy had stopped at the main desk, was bent over some papers, busily signing, and House managed to sidle up behind her unseen—or so he had thought.

"What do you think you're doing?" She whirled so quickly that the last of his momentum nearly forced him into her, and though he was able to steady himself with his cane, there was still a prickle of something in that lightning-quick brush of contact that he tried to ignore.

"Is there even a workplace-appropriate way for me to answer that?"

"Heading back to your patient?" she offered, the dripping sarcasm implying that she knew chances of this were about as good as the chances of a would-be terrorist being struck twice by lightning while trying to rig up a series of explosives on the hospital roof.

There was no reason to give her false hope for some kind of miraculous transformation (if she started to develop expectations, he might have to eventually live up to them). So he snorted with derisive laughter, rolled his eyes. "Yeah right. _I _don't want to be the one to tell that woman that she's incubating more of Satan's spawn. She'll kill me."

"You don't finish your clinic hours and there's a good chance _I _will kill you."

"One-on-one?" He looked her up and down (for practical purposes only). Those heels posed a threat, but he had his cane—similar, larger, if not as sharp. Really all he'd have to watch out for was that she didn't try to smother (or distract him) with some of _softer_ assets, and he would be golden. "I can take you."

If his smugness, his careful (bordering-on-sexually-harassing, in some work environments) examination of her bothered Cuddy in any way, she did nothing to show it. "You can work in the clinic or you can work up in the daycare. Your choice."

"You'd be sued for child endangerment."

She had been expecting this—he could tell the moment she flashed that coy grin. "The way things were going back there, I'd say _you'll_ be in more danger than the children will be."

The only logical response to that was right in front of his nose—practically on display thanks to the sheer genius of low-cut v-necks and the underwire. "Yeah? And how're the breasts?"

This remark earned him something of the transformation—the corners of that _I've got you_ smile trembling, and he waited for it to break into a thousand little pieces: surprise and righteous anger and _even after all these years, I still cannot believe_….

But that wasn't what happened at all. Either he was way off his A-game today, or she had completely nailed one out of the park while he'd had his back turned and simply couldn't be stopped. He watched the edges of her expression—the smile, the eyes, every muscle playing into it—fold into themselves and twist like origami into something of entirely new dimensions: not disappointed or angry all, but _wouldn't you like to know…._

With that, Cuddy pushed past him, through the clinic doors and across the hall to her office. There was nothing for House to do but watch her walk away—not a bad consolation prize in itself, with the way her skirt clung and moved with her curves.

Damn.

The sudden voice in his ear was low and unsettling—its owner probably close enough to notice him cringe, caught. "Enjoying the view?"

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**As always, thanks so much for reading -- love to hear what you thought!**


	2. Hatred

**Special thanks to wrytingtyme, NoMoreSound, Critical Blues, AngelEyes2332, HouseM.D.FanForever, Forlond, glicine, HolidayArmadillo, starkidtw, HuddyTheUltimate, Merlynnod, mandy9578, Snivellusly Ozalan, and Nerds United, who are all simply fantastic. And now for round two...**

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**Hatred  
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When the door to her office opened not three minutes later, Cuddy had to fight to keep herself from reacting. It was especially difficult to ignore him in general (he always made sure of that), but when he sidled up right behind her, bending so closely over her shoulder that she could feel his breath, hot, on her neck…. He reached out a hand, turning the folder in front of her lengthwise as if it were a centerfold, and whistling softly.

Quickly righting the finance report and pulling it away from him, she turned her chin in his direction but refused to make eye contact. "Get back to the clinic, House."

"Shh." The hiss was completed, of course, with a finger to the lips and the eerie tone in which he continued. "Good things come to those who wait."

"Nothing good ever comes of waiting for something _you've _set up. I wasn't kidding about—"

"You're ruining the moment."

At this—and against her better judgment—she laughed, the sound escaping between lips that should have been pursed in annoyance. The soft implication, and how he could look like _that_—almost tender and only rough around the edges, so that her pulse fluttered even while she knew full well he was being an ass….

"You're ruining my concentration."

"You think _I'm_ distracting?"

He was staring over her shoulder, down the front of her shirt, and it should have been horribly offensive—she should have been scandalized, smacking him aside and trying to cover up. But there were days when Cuddy would swear that if it weren't for the sometimes silent seconds he spent ogling her cleavage, she'd never get a word in edgewise. She shifted subtly to better his view, and his head inched forward in a way that would have had her laughing if she hadn't been hell-bent on staying serious (and something like professional, but only enough so that she could still retain a measure of control).

"You think you're not?"

"It's a sliding scale," House mumbled, low and rumbling so that she felt the vibrations of the words more than heard them.

Cuddy tilted her head, watching him curiously—torn between sending him screaming back to the clinic (where he belonged, she had to remind herself), and seeing just how far this would go. The answer to that was quick and sharp: not very far at all. Because suddenly, he was smirking, and as his eyes flicked to the door, she had the distinct, sinking feeling that he had been in control of the situation the entire time.

Example… she didn't even know what number anymore… of her being far too focused on him—distracted by his antics—and, as always, it came with a price. She heard the scuffle, followed his gaze, two seconds too late. The door to her office burst open with such force, she half-expected someone to have kicked it in, bringing her face-to-face (insofar as it were possible) with a no-nonsense expression and the barrel of a gun: _we have you surrounded; put your hands where I can see them_.

Instead, two small boys came tearing into the room, the smaller one ducking behind the couch while the other tried to scramble over it. "Give it!"

"She gave _me_ the red one!" the younger boy shouted, voice pitching off into a whine. He darted behind the desk, jostling Cuddy's chair as he used it for cover so that she had to brace herself, careful that the wheels didn't spin over little feet or fingers. "It's mine!"

House was a marvel of coordination—what with the way the boy was practically dancing to keep the coveted red lollipop out of his brother's clutches—plucked the candy from the wildly waving hand as smoothly as if it were one of the strings on his beloved guitar. The effect was not unlike a snake poised before springing out and striking its prey—and House looked so pleased with himself when he caught her eye that she wouldn't have been surprised if that grin of his did in fact unhinge his jaw.

The boy was less than thrilled, but not at all threatening, with his hands on his hips and his chest puffed up under his juice-stained shirt. "Hey!"

House pretended not to notice, the crinkle of plastic (and the wrapper's sudden appearance on her desk despite the proximity of the garbage can) announcing his intention to fully enjoy his spoils. The child looked to her for help (and she had seen that expression before, those puppy-dog eyes…), but she quickly broke eye contact—the solution, if cruel, was ingenious.

"Boys! Sit! Now!"

In the rush of excitement, Cuddy hadn't noticed anyone else enter the room, but judging by the harried and exhausted aura that seemed to radiate from the young woman, she was the boys' mother. She held the baby in one hand, the toddler's wrist in the other, her commanding bark (almost) stopping the children in their tracks. What little cooperation the mother's order failed to achieve, the slamming of the door secured. With her arms folded and the surely fatal glare she was currently directing towards House, Brenda was a formidable sight—enough to at least make the older boy hesitate before turning to his brother.

"Ha! Now _you_ don't have one!"

"Think twice, mister, because neither do you." Letting go of the toddler, the boys' mother crossed the room and snatched the lemon lollipop from her eldest son, using it to point at the couch. "Sit down."

Taking advantage of the break in the commotion, Cuddy stood—ready for introductions and explanations—only to find herself nearly pushed back into her seat. She grabbed at the edge of her desk to keep from falling, the chair spinning backwards and House's warm body pressing up against hers—every inch of her skin practically humming at the proximity, though she fought not to feel it, especially since House seemed unfazed. He ignored her completely, staring down at the little boy who stood gripping his pant leg with one hand and calmly sucking the thumb of the other. Those wide, dark eyes were solemn and piercing, would one day no doubt break dozens of hearts—though not today (or this one in particular).

"Shoo," House muttered, trying to gently push the child away with his cane, bending when the little guy refused to budge and pulling the tiny hand from his leg. As if the child's fist were some sort of bobby-trapped device designed to go off if it weren't holding onto _something_, House replaced his pant leg with the newly-unwrapped lollipop, apparently considering the loss a fair trade. The action seemed to placate (or confuse) the child enough for House to put some distance between them, moving around her to stand on her other side (his hand grazed her arm, the touch so light she shouldn't have felt it).

The baby started fussing, the mother trying to quiet him, and Cuddy felt something bump against her knee. Glancing down, she saw the toddler peering up at her sadly, and her hand once again ran through the mess of curls on top of his head. His soft weight was irresistible, in her arms almost before she realized what she was doing, and as he hid his face in the curve of her neck, she sighed, breathing in the sweet scent of milk and powder.

"Dr. House said you'd be able to tell me what's wrong with Cody," the young woman finally began (not seeming to notice that the baby was trying to secure his next meal).

"I thought it would be better coming from you." House's brow was furrowed, and he gave her those eyes that could melt the icecaps, that she knew were a complete act but still somehow couldn't look away from—and it would be so much easier to just be able to flat-out hate him, even for only awhile.

"Hey! Cool it!"

Her body reacted automatically, guiltily snapping to attention as if she'd been caught passing notes during class (or staring at her crush), the blood rushing to her cheeks, and she felt thirteen-years-old again, all frizzy hair and awkward limbs and incoordination….

And, of course, the boys' mother wasn't looking at her and House at all. The two older brothers had turned to making faces, started jabbing each other in the ribs. Cuddy felt a jolt in her side as House followed suit, his elbow sharp, though he wasn't trying to hurt her, grin enormous—and in about two seconds she would almost have herself convinced that what she actually felt towards him _was_ hatred, and more assuredly not—

A cold, wet little hand pressed against her neck—the toddler had picked his head up off her shoulder, stopped sucking his thumb. Twice rejected, and he and House were apparently bitter enemies now—the small boy frowned darkly, his expression so fierce that House looked almost chagrined.

Cuddy had to fight to hide her smile, must have failed because the edge of laughter tinted her voice. "Why don't you take the boys outside?"

She nodded at Brenda, still standing like a sentinel in front of the door, but it was House who answered. "No prob, boss."

"Don't. Move."

It was two separate statements, almost a snarl, and the voice was Brenda's though Cuddy had formed the thought, tried to press it into speech, but it simply wouldn't take shape.

Balancing the toddler on her hip, she rifled through her desk, finally finding an old box of crayons she kept for just such an emergency. Ignoring House's amused look (and making sure to jostle him as she passed), Cuddy grabbed some scrap paper and rounded the table. Handing the crayons to one boy, the paper to the other, and placing the toddler on the ground with a quick pat on the shoulder, she watched Brenda take the baby and march them all out the door and into her outer office. Her assistant took one look at the invasion and decided on an early coffee break.

With the boys gone, the mother looked almost relieved, sank gratefully into the chair that Cuddy offered. "Is it serious? Is Cody—"

"No," Cuddy quickly reassured, turning to House for backup.

"If by _not serious_ you mean a great punching back for his big brother, then yeah."

The mother whipped her head around to stare through the glass to her boys, glaring. The older one seemed to sense the gaze and looked up immediately, blanching. He grabbed a crayon and hurriedly bent over the paper in front of him, scribbling. "I've told him a thousand times—"

"Actually," Cuddy intervened, pausing. But there was really no other way to say it, no gentle way to break the news to a woman whose four young boys were already running her ragged. "Congratulations are in order. You're pregnant."

There was a beat—something very much what it must be like in the moments before a volcanic eruption, all those signs that can warn but still not wholly prepare for the actual event: wisps of smoke, tremors, the threatening rumble….

"Now, you listen to me—just because a woman is a _healthy_ size and not obnoxiously thin like _some_ people, doesn't mean—"

When Cuddy looked to House—with something that must have been pure horror, unadulterated rage—all he did was smirk, shrug. The man obviously had a death wish.

It took a full fifteen minutes to calm the woman, before Cuddy finally succeeded in sending her back into the clinic (with the promise of a different doctor and someone to look after her sons in the meantime) for an actual pregnancy test.

The safest thing would have been for House to at least try to slip from the room—unless he could somehow manage to blend into the wall or remain perfectly silent. But safe was boring, wasn't House, and there were times when he seemed to inch so far towards insanity that his genius was barely a blip on the radar. He leaned nonchalantly against the wall, bouncing his cane on the ground; the heavy _thud_, _thud_, _thud_ echoed in her temples, and she brought a hand to her forehead, tried to rub it away.

"You know she's pregnant as well as I do."

He at least had the decency to keep his voice low—a sweetly touching courtesy coming from the man who usually paid deference to no one but himself. But Cuddy was slowly simmering, not about to give him credit (or at least not to show that she did) for something he probably learned in preschool and actively ignored until that second.

She took a step toward him, unsuccessfully willing her headache into nonexistence. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Fifty bucks says _she_ even knows it."

Well, yes, but still. There was a line, so faded from his repeated jaunts over it that it might as well have been etched in chalk to disappear with the rain and be scrawled back at random, a little farther from the rules each time.

"Tests, House. They exist for a reason."

He tilted his head, ever infuriating, as if mulling over this never-before-heard information. "Didn't see the point."

"Because most patients have a hard time believing their doctors are omniscient!"

Poor choice of words, admitting he was all-knowing—or even linking the sentiment with his name in any way at all. He was grinning, damn him, and talking, though she was, too, their voices cascading in a way that should have seemed less perfect.

"Think of how much—"

"And dragging her in here—"

"—money you'd save if they did."

"—was just spiteful."

Cuddy paused, had to take a breath—both of them did, but House beat her to it, and she hadn't realized how close she had come to him until she could feel his rush of air wash over her. She took a careful step back, trying _not_ to look as if she were gulping for any air that wasn't somehow imbued with him. His chest rose and fell quickly—hers must have been, too, because his eyes never left it.

"But fun—don't forget fun." He could have been an eight-year-old let loose in a candy store, the way he was grinning, probably couldn't have managed to radiate any more exasperating charm if he had been, and she should have been immune to it after all these years. "The look on your face…."

"You want fun? Ten dollars—"

"Any "fun" you can get for ten dollars—_isn't_. And usually ends in itching and a burning sensation about a week later."

Ribbing him for how, exactly, he knew this was just what he wanted, would spin it off onto some tangent, so naturally that she wouldn't even realize they had followed it until she was miles from her point—too far to even remember what it was anymore. Cuddy settled for arching an eyebrow, continuing as if he hadn't said anything at all.

"I will give you ten dollars for every clinic patient you treat _without _irritating me or anyone else—_including_ the patient."

The way he was staring at her, it was as though she'd asked him to simultaneously discover the solution to world peace, find the derivative of _y _with respect to _x_, and grow a second head. All within the next five minutes.

"I'm not really seeing where the fun comes in."

"Generally, I'd say the money."

"What, you want me to swim in it?" he scoffed, using his cane to push himself away from the wall (and too close to her again). "Ten bucks a patient isn't gonna make much of a splash."

"I don't care _what_ you do with it." And, quite frankly, it was probably better if she didn't know. "You're on for the rest of the day—that's a lot of patients. But you have to actually be _nice_ to them."

Not surprisingly, he ignored her. "Coming from you, it'll all be in singles, right?"

"Who knows—maybe you'll be able to afford some company tonight that won't leave you Chlamydia as a parting gift."

It suddenly dawned on her that it was dangerous chattering carelessly about sex when he was so close, but she immediately dismissed the very thought as ludicrous. This was House: cranky, cunning, aggravating, hating of and hated by (almost) everyone….

"That depends…." A grin was tugging at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes shot to hers before she was ready to deflect them. The only thought that formed as she lost herself in blue (or at least the only one she would give any weight) was that whatever he said next should have her cringing. "You been tested?"


	3. Insanity

**Happy new year, all! Sorry for the delay--the holidays were crazy, and my computer was acting up. As always, thanks so much to everyone reading, especially, Shikabane-Mai, wrytingtyme, CaptainTish, mandy9578, gidget89, glicine, Casper1311, scheggia, HolyMacaroni, Schulyer Lola, Nerds United, and Snivellusly Ozalan for the awesome reveiws. I can't thank you all enough!**

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Insanity  
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"But it's not just that! She's always nauseous, completely lost her appetite, and won't—"

"Sore throat? Swollen tongue? Blisters or pustules on the insides of the cheeks?"

"What? No!" The mother glared at him as if the questions were absolutely absurd, cheeks pinched, lips pressed together in a tight, thin line. Her so-large-they-can't-be-real diamond earrings glinted as she suddenly stopped her pacing, not a hair so much as moving on her perfectly-coifed head.

House was all too familiar with this model of motherhood: June Cleaver 4.0—hyped up on steroids and the Beaver's Ritalin in order to deal with the mounting pressures of life outside the picture-perfect 1950s (what a lie that decade was). Or, even more likely, she just had a stick up her ridiculously tight ass like 98 of the human population. Some people should simply not be allowed to procreate. Period.

"Is she always this quiet," House began, jerking the chart towards the 'darling' daughter perched on the exam table, enough makeup on her to put most cross-dressers to shame. "Or is it just when _you're _talking?"

There was a derisive snort, the girl this time—though if she knew how much the sound and accompanying flippant hair-toss were reminiscent of her mother, she might have refrained. "Nobody'd _ever_ be able to talk if we had to wait for _her _to shut up."

"Don't you start, young lady…."

Turning his attention from the girl's just-too-tight shirt, House reexamined the test results, hiding his smirk in the chart. "_Little_ late for that."

"The mouth on her. It's a wonder I don't—"

"I'm _right here_, Mom," 'Darling' Daughter moaned, emphasizing with a wild wave of her arms and practicing her _I'm so mortified I just might die_ face.

"Convenient, huh?" House cut in, turning to the June Cleaver wannabe before she could snipe back at her daughter (family meals in this house had to be an absolute scream). "Even more convenient if she stays here and you take a seat in the waiting room. Chairs there are much more comfortable."

Doing little more than wrinkling her nose, the mother managed to look as though House had calmly suggested she take a seat in some back alley and wait for the pickpockets and hoodlums to arrive. "I didn't suffer through thirty-two hours of labor and God knows how many years of mouthing off to be kicked into the waiting room of a free clinic!"

"See, this whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing is set up so I don't have to deal with you."

"Well, for the love of God…." June had her hands on her hips, eyes flashing, but she was going to have to do better than that if she wanted to try to intimidate him. "You're worse than she is!"

"If you were in the waiting room, you wouldn't have to deal with either of us," House pointed out matter-of-factly, grinning at the girl, who returned the gesture readily, glad to have one up on her mother. "And it'd be easier for us to talk about you behind your back. Everybody wins."

June apparently chose to interpret this as a personal insult, quite clearly needed to get a grip. "I want to speak to your supervisor."

House chuckled, earning himself another glare. "No, you don't."

"Can we just get this over with?" 'Darling' Daughter whined, having forgotten the camaraderie of just a moment ago. "If I'm not back at school by lunch, Coach won't let me practice."

Well, since they were apparently no longer BFF, the truth wouldn't hurt, even in front of her mother. "Another few weeks and Coach won't let you be on top of the pyramid either. The other girls on the squad are gonna start to complain once that first trimester weight gain _really_ kicks in."

The girl's mouth opened and shut like that of a fish out of water. Denial was futile—her eyes averting, cheeks flushing, fingers drumming nervously on the exam table. Her mother was a little less quiet, voice about two decibels from where only dogs would have been able to hear it (and how fortunate that would have been). "You… you must've made some mistake."

"I don't make mistakes," House stated with mock solemnity. "But look on the bright side… you'll make one _hot_ grandma."

At this, June positively blanched—even more than she had with the blow of the initial news—so much of the color draining from her face that she probably shouldn't have been able to stay conscious. "No. There's just no way. Tessa's in the Abstinence Clu—"

House hadn't heard the door open but recognized the new voice immediately. Maybe because he had heard the words before, and the tone—commanding (the way he liked it) with an underlying hint of something like desperation. "House. Need you. Now."

"Whatever it is, I didn't do it." If Cuddy was going to treat him like a petulant child, there were some ways he didn't mind playing the part (others, he had no control over, as much as he tried—hormones, physical reactions, a wandering mind… he was only human, dammit).

"Who's in charge of him?" June ground out, jerking her head in his direction.

A slight cringe—like a mother forced to lay claim on the child who's just completely decimated a (no doubt hideously ugly) collection of antiques worth more money than she would see in a lifetime. "I am—"

"She wishes," House charged in automatically, covering the place where _unfortunately_ would have been.

"—Is something wrong?"

Cuddy's voice was tired, strained in a way that was (and shouldn't have been) conspicuous to him, probably wasn't noticed at all by the girl or her mother. But to take this as a sign of weakness would have been feeding himself to the wolves—and on a silver platter, no less. When he finally made eye contact, cobbling together as innocent a face as he could manage, Cuddy's expression flashed so quickly from her best _I'm a doctor and I care in a purely professional way_ to _I'm the Queen of the Damned and will disembowel you with my bare hands_ that House was surprised little hell demons didn't materialize at once and begin stabbing him with fire-glowing pitchforks. He probably should've just counted his blessings and left it at that—the little fiends would've had a devil of a time trying to pry the silly grin off his face (and would have gone about it with frightening zeal).

"I need a second opinion," June huffed self-righteously (pathetically). "Dr. House—"

"Has been perfectly _nice_. As ordered. And, more importantly, is right."

Cuddy narrowed her eyes. "I don't call interrupting—"

Some might think taking the bait too easy—House just considered it good plain fun.

"_She's _not my patient." He roughly thrust his cane in the mother's direction, nudging it more gently towards 'Darling' Daughter as he continued. "This _lovely_ young lady is, and I think if you ask her, you'll find I've minded all my P's and Q's."

The warmth of her proximity radiated towards him a split-second before Cuddy grabbed the chart from his grip, a little too violently. Her eyes skipped over him, darting back and forth as she scanned the chart and flicking quickly to the girl (downcast, with a small sigh), before finally landing on him. She pulled at his elbow, her voice was low, almost nonexistent, even with her lips so close to his ear.

"You actually _tested_ this one, right?"

"Results are in the chart," he answered, mimicking tone. "What kind of doctor do you think I am?"

The only answer he got was the chart shoved into his chest (his hand grazing hers as he scrambled to grab it). Cuddy's gaze had moved on, her smile forced—too cheerful and all business. The professional, caring doctor had returned, with a touch of the Dean of Medicine's authority besides—a useful combination in certain instances, perhaps, but it couldn't hold a candle to his own suave _frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn_ mentality.

"We can re-run the test if you like…." She paused here, was pointedly refusing to make eye contact. "But based on the findings and Tessa's symptoms, I have to agree with Dr. House."

June didn't allow him much time to revel in this—or gloat.

"It's impossible. Tessa hasn't—"

"Had sex?" House dropped the chart, watching the women and girl jump as it clattered loudly on the linoleum, and turned towards Cuddy, flabbergasted. "You got a red-line to the Vatican? Haven't had a good Immaculate Conception for about 2000 years—the Pope'll be all over this."

"House," Cuddy warned, eyeing the mother, who, at the moment, was doing a remarkable impression of a lioness readying to pounce on a gazelle. "Not helping."

On audiences like this, his genius was wasted.

"So…" House stood and approached 'Darling' Daughter, pausing only to shoot Cuddy a quick grin before springing as nimbly as he could (which admittedly wasn't very) up onto the exam table in his best teenage-girl-at-a-slumber-party imitation. "Dish. What's his name?"

"Jeremy," the girl admitted after a moment, heaving a sigh. "Or David. Or maybe Asher."

Victory was sweet. And hilarious. June was in danger of hyperventilation, a hand clawing over her heart as if trying to rip it out through her ribcage. "Tessa Elizabeth—"

House was off the exam table before June had even finished her daughter's first name, halfway out the door by the time she had shrieked out the middle. "I'll just leave you girls to chat."

The mother/daughter screech-off carried through the door behind him—there were the generic snippets of _get your act together_, _you're ruining my life_, and _how you grew up into a…_. But he had pegged the Catholic thing—even if it was somewhat lapsed—the threat of a convent, though outdated, was shouted at least twice in the span of time it took Cuddy to follow him out the door and shut it behind her. Now, House would have been first in line to throw rotten fruit at anything to do with psychic powers, spirits, or auras, but even he had to admit that Cuddy's presence was practically pulsing through the air at his side (nothing but anger, he told himself—though the line between that and other more ardent emotions was as thin as the single string of a spider's web).

He had one chance to redeem himself, a few last words before the command to take aim and fire was decided upon. If he valued his life, he'd have to choose them—and any accompanying gestures or expressions—well.

Batting his eyelashes, he simpered sweetly. "Miss me already?"

Cuddy's nostrils flared. Her glare could have cut through steel, somehow managed _not_ to slice through him—though he almost thought it had when her fingers clenched his arm and she jerked him towards her office. He should have resisted (to uphold his image if nothing else), but would have been forced to surrender his arm—to high a price with a limp already. Once through her office doors, Cuddy let go of him, kept moving, and as his mind began to flit with thoughts concerning other tight grips he might find more interesting, he decided it was best to start talking.

"Just because a fifteen-year-old has seen more action in the past two months than you have the last two decades, it's no reason to dismember me."

Cuddy grumbled something that he couldn't quite make out, and he almost asked her to repeat it just to see the particular color of frustration wash over her that he elicited at _least_ half a dozen times a day, an intensity there that could roast him alive (almost had on countless occasions, though the day he told her that—or anyone else—would also be the day he refrained from making any sarcastic or harassing comments whatsoever).

Pausing at her desk for a moment, Cuddy finally plucked a file from the top of a pile and whirled to face him. "Sixty-five-year-old male—"

"Even _you_ can do better than that."

"Insomnia, arrhythmia, ataxia. T-cells are through the roof."

"You pulled me out of _your_ beloved clinic for _this_?"

A tap of a foot, a hand on her hip, and with the tilt of her head and a flashed, forced smile, Cuddy was the picture of irritation and impatience. Except for the smudge on the lens: the slight hesitation just as her eyes skidded from his before locking on determinedly—as clear an answer to his question as if she had put her voice behind those two consecutive letters, or even the smallest amount of force into shaking her head. "He's bounced from the Sleep Lab to Cardio—"

"To Oncology!" he shouted, banging his cane on the floor. "Pin a note on his gown and leave him outside Wilson's office. You're just trying to keep me from getting my hands on your…."

Pause. Smirk. And, well, his eyes blazed their own path, hands twitching to follow but staying out of habit. She couldn't possibly expect more gentlemanly behavior while she was parading the girls around like that. Come to think of it—with the floats taken care of, all Cuddy needed to do was throw in some ticker tape and the brassy rhythm of a marching band, and PPTH would have quite the celebration on its hands. Or better yet: lose the top, string on some beads, and lock everyone under eighteen in the pediatric wing with Brenda—who wanted the family fun of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade when they could have a full-out Mardi Gras?

Amused (and amusingly), Cuddy followed his gaze almost immediately, eyebrows raising just as his hands moved. "Don't even think about it."

"Can't control my thoughts," he pointed out simply. But when she placed both hands on her hips, chest puffing out on a sigh, he was almost forced to retract his statement. He widened his eyes and shook his head (was that the sound of marbles clanging? a few screws, maybe?), gripping his cane tightly with both hands and leaning heavily against it. "Or read them. I was gonna say cold, hard cash—to match your heart."

"Testosterone controls _your_ thoughts," Cuddy murmured as she made her way around her desk, bending to unlock one of the drawers. When she rose, she was holding three bills, pressed them into his hand before backing carefully away.

He stared at the three twenties—the bills so crisp they had either come straight from the Federal Reserve or she had actually taken the time to iron them—back at Cuddy, her arms folded as she leaned back against her desk. Fanning the money out in one hand, House took two long steps forward at a pace that could have been pitted against snails and sloths and still would probably lose a race. "I saw seven patients."

"But you were only _nice_ to six."

She seemed cool and collected, but he hadn't missed the way her hands gripped the edge of her desk, ready to propel herself forward and out of the way before he could come any closer. There was something here she wasn't saying, that he would extract if he had dig through every trash can in the hospital, chase her around the hospital and wear out his other leg. But either Cuddy had actively chosen not to move or House was faster than even he gave himself credit for. He was within reach now. She staid her ground.

"You didn't say anything about being nice to moronic family members."

There went the eyes, just as expected, the blue of both irises cartwheeling simultaneously. "Do I have to spell _everything_ out for you?"

His shoes clicked against hers, and he resisted the urge to see her reaction if he had stepped on them solely because there was no way in hell her toes were at the ends of those absurdly pointed tips. Her head still tilted, Cuddy flicked her eyes upwards with what he chose to interpret as frustration, because, oddly, that was safest. And all he had been going for (seriously—and not even that pout of hers would make him change his mind).

"Won't make a difference." His voice had pitched itself so that it was teeming with different shades of meaning, not all of which he was sure he'd intended, but it was much too late for reconsiderations. "I live for loopholes."

The comment should have earned him another tally on his metaphorical scoreboard (House: somewhere in the double digits for his unceasing cleverness; Cuddy: 3—breasts and ass, and maybe an added half-a-point for that cunning grin she had almost killed him with earlier). But those eyes… that smile that even now was sneakily sidestepping suppression no matter how hard she tried for fierce… how she was letting him stand so close and hadn't yet tried to push away—and neither had he. They should both be given padded cells (or one together—just to cut down on costs).

The three swift raps that sounded weren't his pulse or the beginnings of a heart attack, but a clipped knock on the door—just a formality because it swished opened automatically (and why did he feel the sudden need to groan… or shoot whoever entered?).

"Traded in your _back_stage pass for two front row seats?" the intruder asked with a snort—a beginner's mistake: sound gave away location, made an easier target for a bullet. "What's next—all-access on the tour bus?"

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**Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear from you if you get a chance!**


	4. Violence

**Thanks so much to everyone still reading, and especially those of you nice enough to leave reviews! Schuyler Lola, wrytingtyme, HouseM.D.FanForever, Merlynnod, glicine, ZaraShade, Casper1311, mandy9578, Caroline, huddyaddicted, CaptainTish, Snivellusly Ozalan, and Nerds United: you guys are just awesome--I can't even tell you. And CaptainTish, you get a gold star. :)**

**Well, enjoy! After this, there's only one more to go...**

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Violence**

"Backstage to the front row?" House scoffed, not batting an eye, and she loathed him instantly for his easy nonchalance, for merely cocking his head and not backing away. "Wouldn't that be a step down?"

"You tell me," Wilson replied curiously—the voice familiar now. She could just see him around House's form, was trying not to crane her neck or make it seem as though this close a confrontation (with an employee) were anything out of the ordinary.

"She had something in her eye."

House fidgeted with annoyance, as if this should have been immediately apparent, but there was a split-second hesitation between the first and second word, everything afterwards coming out in a rush, a little too forcefully. With anyone else, the combined tone and body language would have been obvious, even without the telltale blush—but in House? Was embarrassment even possible? He reveled in causing it, certainly, had mastered the skill to an extent that it was almost surprising not to find a degree from Clown College prominently displayed on his office wall. But never once had she known his charm to falter, seen him try to cover up his actions for any reason other than….

Something smacked against her shin—not too hard, but enough to jolt her, reflexes kicking in so that her heel slammed against the desk with a loud thud. House's cane (the bastard), and it followed that the sound she'd heard just a few seconds ago had been his voice, because the impatience behind his question seemed to say it wasn't the first time he'd asked it. "I get it?"

Her confusion must have been evident, her response time slowed (what game was he trying to play now and why?). "I think so."

"I can leave you two to… do whatever it was you were doing," Wilson piped in, after a loud and long second clearing his throat. "I just need to grab—"

"Then you owe me ten more bucks." House was backing away now, and she could finally breathe—deep, full breaths, not the quick, almost panicky gulps that flitted faster than a hummingbird's wing—a fact that was both relieving and absurd. "I'm filling out a chart and everything."

There should have been a comeback for this, but she couldn't seem to summon it. As a general rule, she could handle House—knew not only just how to pitch her voice, angle her body to get what she needed out of him (in a purely professional sense), but also how he would interpret each of her words, signals, even her looks. And when it came to _his_… well, she hadn't needed an interpreter or dictionary in years. It was just how they _worked_, the two of them—too loud, too close—a modification of the employer/employee mechanism, nothing more. But add another element—surprise, uranium—and the already precariously balanced relationship, a power struggle till the death (and how, exactly, was this different from marriage?) could easily tip the odds in his favor. It was this quick, slapdash lie that had done it. Had his voice twisted into some kind of crude joke or base insinuation, she would have been able to handle it with ease. But this… this was a piece of a whole different puzzle—the edges not matching the one she had been working on at all.

House started towards the door, nudging Wilson on his way (and waggling his eyebrows—she couldn't see it, but she knew). "Watch out for that one—she'll take you for everything you've got and then some. Five minutes with her and it's time for my nap."

"Clinic duty," Cuddy called fiercely, a last-ditch attempt to have the final word.

"Same thing."

She deflected the rakish grin he aimed in her direction by turning and walking back around her desk (farther away and something between them—always good). His eyes were still on her, but she refused to turn around, instead gazing through the window, letting the soft sunlight that snuck through the slats of the blinds streak across her in warm stripes.

Then the door clicked, he was gone. And she could feel every last muscle in her body—down to those she didn't know she could physically control—relax.

"Eyelash?"

She bristled at the sound, had forgotten she wasn't alone (and what Wilson was talking about, but that came back quickly). Leaving the window, Cuddy busied herself by searching the top of her desk for a pen—a task which shouldn't have been so difficult. "Something like that."

The silence that followed was awkward (filled too much with thoughts of House, even as she tried to get her brain to rejoice in a few minutes peace from him), and she opened her mouth to perfunctorily fill it when Wilson took a step forward. "He doesn't think you notice him staring at your ass."

On the scale of one to 'things she never expected to hear from James Wilson,' this scored about a seven. She considered asking how Wilson knew this, what _he_ thought of the view (just to turn the tables, see the look of terror that would inevitably spread across his face), but switched tactics at the last second.

"Does he think I'm blind?"

"No…." The vowel stretched as if the next choice of words were a matter of life and death. "He thinks he's subtle."

"Right." Cuddy almost snorted at the ridiculousness of the idea. House was as subtle as a flashing neon sign over the blackened window of a seedy bar—and just about as crude.

Wilson ran a hand over the back of his neck, chuckling in agreement, and suddenly they were nothing more than good friends sharing a laugh. She tried to revel in that alone, ignore the one thing that almost always brought her and Wilson together (and how that one thing still seemed to be in the room, watching unseen—like a ghost, and just as haunting).

"He didn't take the…." Wilson had picked up the file from where House must have dropped it on his way out the door (as expected), had opened it as he neared her desk—and suddenly looked very much like a small, wounded animal. "Why were you giving him my patient? Did Mr. Crosby ask for a second opinion, because he never hinted—"

"No, I was just—" Somehow, _trying to get the better of House_ didn't seem like the best (or most professional) response. "—signing off on these."

Taking the stack of folders off her desk, she thrust it in Wilson's direction. He took them, but not without giving her a look. It wasn't the same as that brazen, broiling stare—lacked the naked-and-rubbed-raw feeling that always accompanied it, as if every single part of her had been systematically separated, cleaned, and was undergoing intense scrutiny beneath the humming glare of fluorescent lights. But still there was something to it, and she felt suddenly like a little girl tangled up in her own fib (or jump rope). Maybe it wasn't as easy to fool Wilson as she'd thought.

"Did you need something?"

"Just these charts. I have a meeting with a patient in ten minutes." For Wilson, this was almost last-minute—he usually pored over his patients' charts, sometimes for nearly an hour, before finding the gentlest way to break the news—but he still didn't seem to be going anywhere. Cuddy nodded in order to give him some kind of response—maybe more in dismissal—and sunk into her chair. There must have been something almost desperate in the action, because Wilson frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I meant in general. And with House." He was watching her steadily, that expression that meant he had steeled up his courage (run out of polite patience) and was going to keep questioning until he got some actual answers. This particular look was usually aimed in House's direction, and it was strange to find herself on the receiving end.

"He's being no more irritating today than he is any other day of the week," Cuddy pointed out easily, because it was fact—the next was more fiction, perhaps a dash of hope, but it followed anyway. "I've built up a tolerance."

"You know…. Every time I ask _him _if something's going on, he makes some inappropriate comment about exactly _how_ well he knows you…."

"Like he'd do anything different if someone asked him about _your_ relationship." The words came out quickly, but (she hoped) not so much so that they seemed suspicious. "It's House."

Wilson's smirk was enough to transform his face completely. A half-smile, a knowing stare all it took for her to see House before her, and she had to tilt her head, narrow her eyes to watch the face shift, the image like a hologram—Wilson one second, not the next, and then back to how it should be again. She needed five seconds where her office, her peripheral vision (her thoughts) were completely void of House.

"True. But the level of detail is inspiring. Either he's put some serious thought into this, or—"

"Don't—" Cuddy interrupted quickly, quietly, but there was a soft power behind it that even she could feel, "—finish that sentence."

The door opened without so much as a knock. She would take any interruption if it brought a swift end to this conversation—or at least that's what she had thought until she saw the look on Brenda's face. "We have a problem."

Hope against hope…. "Tell me it isn't House."

"There's no hard evidence if that's what you mean. Yet."

Wilson glanced down at his watch. "What could he have done in five minutes? Even House—"

The way Brenda turned towards him, it was as though Wilson had declared himself a being from another planet and asked to be taken to her leader. "You ever leave a half-starved dog alone in a chicken coop for five minutes?"

"Nooo…" Wilson replied slowly, eyeing Brenda warily, and even Cuddy had to admit that the nurse's statement was begging for a continuation. "But point taken."

"You're going to be late for your meeting," Cuddy broke in as gently as she could. Harsh, perhaps, diving so quickly from friend back to employer, but in all honestly, she could operate better without Wilson watching over her shoulder. House—once she got her claws on him—would only be forced to put on more of a show. "I've got this."

Wilson nodded obediently, murmuring, "Good luck," as he plodded from the room.

Brenda moved out of the doorway to let him pass and launched immediately into the matter at hand. "Clinic waiting room's full of patients. No doctors."

"What?" Wilson had been right—even for House's evil genius this was astoundingly fast. "Five minutes ago—"

"Five minutes ago, Lee got a call about some emergency at her son's school. House and Cooper are MIA. I'm having Security track the call. Either someone covers the clinic, or we have to close for the day." Brenda had her hands on her hips, and there was nothing amusing about the way she tacked on, "You're the boss."

Cuddy rested her chin on her hand with a sigh. Why did she let anything surprise her anymore? "I'll be right there."

Brenda was out the door without another word, and Cuddy allowed herself a moment to breathe before smoothing her lab coat and following. Each step across the hall was heavy, building on her frustration. Grabbing a chart from the Nurses' Station, she skimmed over it as she opened the door to the exam room, starting quickly and efficiently into clinic mode. "Hello, I'm Dr. Cuddy. What seems to be the problem, Mr.— House!"

"Doctor," he answered back easily. He was lying on the exam table, arms folded behind his head and rose with a grin. "Graduated and everything."

"Where's the patient?" Clipped, quick—as it should be (so far, so good). She could do this—even after Wilson's absurd (unfounded) interrogation. And if House tried anything even remotely suspicious, she could always stab him in the eye with a stiletto.

"We're playing hide and seek. He's a _really_ good hider." House didn't balk at her glare or tone—chances were better every second that neither had been nearly as intimidating as she'd imagined—but at least he rolled his eyes. "Oh, relax. Treated and streeted. He's pregnant. Well, maybe not him, but his secretary. Worrying that his wife would find out about those lunchtime meetings was keeping him up at night."

"What happened to behaving and seeing patients?" Not much of a mystery. "And Dr. Lee and Dr. Cooper?"

She was putting everything she had into fury and poise. House simply shrugged. "Got boring. Lee's daughter—"

"Son."

"Wow—surprised she fell for that then." He chuckled, kicked his feet against the table like a five-year-old before continuing. "Her _son_ had an "accident." And Cooper's such an idiot he actually believed me when I told him you said he could go home. You should fire him."

"I should fire _you_."

"But you won't."

Maybe he had a point—but did he need to sing it like a lark, look so damn pleased with himself? Shift balance, remove shoe, beat that stupid grin off his face. Three simple steps—it should have been foolproof….

House picked up a chart from the table beside him and made a show of glancing over it, smirking. "You actually came to _this_ hospital to be treated for—"

"_Give_ me that." She had never crossed an exam room so quickly, snatching the chart away from him and poring over it. Aside from her name, and _tight-ass_, _HUGE ASS_, and _headache_ under 'Symptoms,' all in his familiar, untidy scrawl—it was blank. If she hadn't been so furious with him (and it _was_ real, this anger—she just barely had to stretch for it), it might almost have made her laugh.

"Got something to hide, Dr. Cuddy? You should _want_ to be my next patient." He had that look about him again—the cat that had gotten the canary, pleased as Punch (with a touch of almost-but-not-quite pure evil besides—something that was purely and peculiarly _him_ and would never fit another face). "Eight patients today—five pregnancy diagnoses. Odds are in your favor."

The last sentence, though still teasing, was almost gentle, and…

No, no, no— this shouldn't be happening. She was softening towards him, needed to stay focused—needed to hate him, loathe him, want to absolutely murder him.

"House." She placed a hand on the exam table (to steady herself, though he didn't need to know that). "Whatever this is, it has to stop."

"This—" he started, watching her hand, "—is an exam table. Give me a second to find the emergency brake."

He hopped down from his post, twisting as if actually searching for the brake. God…. Infuriating was not even the tip of the iceberg. The charts and her hand slammed onto the exam table almost of their own volition, the thwack and crinkle of paper satisfying only for a second—maybe the euphoria would've lasted longer if she'd smacked them first against his leg.

"I meant _you_—thinking you can do or say whatever the hell comes into that twisted brain of yours, wreaking hav—"

A hand wrenched, too hard, at her elbow, her body pressing firmly, hotly, up against his, and if there were ever an instant for an interruption (fire, tsunami, plague of locusts, a knock on the door), this would be it, because otherwise….

Oh, _damn_.


	5. Surrender

**Finally! The final chapter! Thanks so much to everyone who stuck with this. Especially, Schuyler Lola, mandy9578, wrytingtyme, addicted1, HouseM.D.FanForever, starkidtw, A. Heiden, velimira, red blood, khaosfire, Nerds United, Snivellusly Ozalan, and CaptainTish! You guys have been just fantastic!**

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**Surrender**

He had caught her mid-word, forced her to swallow the rest—a gentle flutter of muscles, like the ripple of water in a barely-disturbed glass. This is what it was to have been doused in toxic waste or bitten by some radioactive insect—instant superpowers, hyper-aware of everything: sound, movement, the feel of her—all traveling in vibrations to the base of his spine and spreading out in waves of heat. Cuddy was half-a-step behind him, motionless but for her arm twitching reflexively in his grasp.

What the hell had he been thinking?

Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Some alien life-force (stronger than even his own stubbornness) had invaded his brain and taken momentary control, convinced him that this was the one and only surefire way to shut her up.

It really was that simple.

A breath—his or hers (or maybe both). He couldn't tell, and at the moment, it all amounted to the same thing. Then it was all humid heat and no sound and Cuddy pressed tight against him, the hand he didn't still have pinned wandering up to frame his face, fingers on fire. And when she came to life, rising up on her toes, there was such a ferocity there it was as though their conversation had barely skipped a beat. With one last surge of brainpower, he tried to remind himself that he hated her, that she had somehow bewitched him, that all this was nothing but proof that he was absolutely, without a doubt, certifiably insane, but—

Oh, fuck, yes….

This was war—explosions and fire and evasive maneuvers: everything but the trenches, because there was nowhere to run, nothing to hide that she wouldn't discover. Not that he wanted to get away—suspected (no _knew_ now—good God, somewhere _that_ had to be illegal) Cuddy felt the same way. She wasn't going to yield to him, at least not without first doing everything in her power to assert her dominance. And that thought alone (not to mention whatever her tongue was currently doing to his) was enough to drain all the blood from his head and pump it straight to more useful places.

He had forgotten just how good this (she) could be.

It felt like floating, but with friction, and a rush like wind, and everything humming—things that didn't even make sense but did at the same time. He had initiated, so it fit that Cuddy was the one to decide when it came to an end, his cheek suddenly cold as her hand left it, sliding down his neck and coming to rest on his chest. She began to push against him just as he took her lower lip gently between his teeth, and the split-second, barely-there sound that came from her was something like a whimper and a moan knotted hastily together so that one tangled into the other and back again.

Everything was suddenly clear as crystal: the woman was trying to kill him.

Cuddy took a step back and stretched out her arm—an effort to put some distance between them, though she didn't move her hand (but if she hadn't noticed, he sure as hell wasn't going to remind her). He would be branded for life—he was sure of it—the unique waves and whorls of each of her fingertips burning straight through the cotton of his t-shirt and imprinting on the skin below. A mark of ownership, maybe, a show of his own stupidity for not wearing flame-retardant clothes when he had known full well that they would, at some point, have found themselves in the same room (he would have made sure of it); but—most importantly—evidence when the police found his body, the medical examiner still scratching his head even after the autopsy had been performed. He wouldn't be able to blame them when _inconclusive_ was all that appeared under 'Cause of Death'—death by succubus simply wasn't all that common in this day and age.

Because, really, there were three options at this point: his racing heart would finally give out, she would suck his soul straight through his chest, or that look he'd caught a glimpse of meant he was about to take a stiletto to the temple and straight through to the brain. However it happened, chances were good that he only had three seconds to live.

Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her heart beating so fast that he could see it jumping under her flushed skin, and the impulse to reach out and…. _Keep your hands to yourself, Gregory…._ (Why, in the name of Satan and all things unholy, did that little voice inside him decide _now_ to make its debut after forty-something years? And sounding alarmingly like his mother?) But it was her eyes—when he finally got around to looking at them—that had him: smoldering, the line between lust and anger dangerously hazy. And he knew then and there why he always went farther out of his way to rile her than anyone else. If _this_ is what he got for giving in to the devil woman, then he'd pay _her_ to take his soul.

It was quiet, too quiet—just breathing and heartbeats, louder than they should have been but still not loud enough. Silence wasn't something that often came between them, or that which did was crammed with whatever words seemed to best fit (and even those that didn't so long as _something_ was said). It was what kept the world from falling in around them—patched up the cracks, the vulnerabilities, with clever retorts and teasing.

"Rapid breathing. Flushed skin. Pupils like saucers," he finally ground out, and the only explanation for the strange pitch of his voice was that he was suddenly coming down with a cold. "Looks like we've got some new symptoms."

"And you think _you're_ more subtle?" It was the fastest-spreading instant cold in the history of medicine. And that was all that kept him from groaning at the new huskiness in her voice (though when she let her eyes trail down below his waist to make her point, he almost had to admit defeat). But then her hand was gone from his chest, on her hip, and she was continuing, her tone more normal now: almost accusatory, chastising. "Wilson's seen you staring at my ass. And don't think I haven't noticed either. Just because my back is turned—"

"I don't really know where else you expect me to look when your backside is taking up my entire field of vision." He leaned lazily back against the exam table, not once taking his eyes from her. "And don't let Wilson fool you into thinking he's completely innocent. Should've seen him at—"

"Yet _he's_ not the one who consistently racks up the most sexual harassment complaints every year than the entire rest of the staff combined."

"I know…." He shook his head sadly and heaved a sigh. "And you'd think something would've been done by now. But who wants to be the one to tell the boss her shirts make it _really_ hard to focus?" A beat. Two. They were still close enough so that he had a relatively good view of her cleavage (as good as he could get with that damned shirt in the way). "On work, at least."

Cuddy shifted, and two questions sprung simultaneously to mind: Had there been any reported deaths by cleavage within U.S. jurisdiction? And all those seemingly innocent times she had moved—for years—had she really been _giving _him a better view?

Wait—she was talking.

"…amount of time you spend staring at my breasts is far less than the time you'd spend concocting ways to somehow lift or lower less revealing outfits." She was grinning wryly, twisted to stand beside him, one arm brushing his as she leaned back against the exam table, the other lifting a hand to her forehead, scrubbing her fingers over her eyes. "Give me a little credit: I know how to keep my employees interested in their jobs."

He smirked at this—the woman had a point and made it well, her argument almost infallible. Of course, 'employees,' only referred to _him_. Not that she didn't know how to keep the others in top form, but he assumed (hoped) the means were slightly different. Reaching for her almost-forgotten chart, he slid it closer, pretending to study it carefully. There was at least one symptom he could do something about now—the rest would have to wait. "I think I have just the cure for your condition."

As he shuffled over towards a cabinet and rifled through it, her voice echoed warningly behind him, coaxing a smile. "If you turn around with a package of condoms, House, I swear to God—"

"One thing at a time." Finding the bottle he wanted, he shook it as he turned back to her, the pills rattling. "Can't let you use that headache as an excuse later. Gonna have to get creative. And in more than just excuses, if you know what I mean."

It was teasing, annoying—or so he'd thought. Her expression was cloudy, unreadable for the first time in….

Cuddy's heels clicked the two steps it took her to meet him—halfway, as they did almost everything—but when her hand reached out, it didn't take the ibuprofen, and he almost dropped the bottle, fingers clenching at the last second. Instead her palm pressed against the back of his neck, pulling downward, the connection electric but the spark soft. He didn't know what this was—gratitude, an explanation, some sort of unnecessary apology—but it was gentle and almost sweet, not at all what he was used to from her or anyone else. And it took him all of an instant to decide that he could come to crave this, too, need it, as much as air or sex or even sarcasm. This wasn't the dominatrix/Dean of Medicine (a product of slightly-twisted reality and his own lonely late-night musings) or the hospital administrator who knew the way into and out of all the building's tight corners.

It was just… Cuddy, without any other strings or labels attached—someone he almost couldn't remember the last time he'd seen. (Before that big tennis match, perhaps, all jitters and nerves in that so-short-it-should-be-illegal skirt… after a long and loud frat party when the stars and darkness seemed to stretch forever in a half-drunken haze… or maybe even….)

All this must've been a split-second, because he hadn't even had the time to open his mouth to hers when the door opened with a loud bang, issuing in the noise from the hall outside. The hospital could function without them, apparently (and by _them_, he clearly meant _her_)—or maybe not, which was why everything seemed so ridiculously noisy.

Cuddy jumped; he didn't, watching her nervously step back and smooth her lab coat, cheeks a shade of pink that he was beginning to like even better on her than she-devil red. And it was hopeless pretending, unless whoever stood there was blind, a complete moron, or an easy-to-fool three-year-old. No matter who it was or which category they fell under, House wasn't about to discriminate: death would be instantaneous but still incredibly painful. He was halfway convinced that he could kill with his glare alone.

"Didn't anyone teach you to knock?" he growled.

"Didn't anyone teach _you_ the right way to please a lady?" came the quick response. "Because _those_ pills aren't gonna do it."

Brenda. Damn. His imagined death glare wasn't going to cut it—he'd tried before, numerous times. Her frown was hard, almost dangerous, but that didn't mean he couldn't counter it. Brenda blinked (Ha! He'd won—even if she hadn't known their staring had escalated into a full-on competition) and shifted her focus to Cuddy, her gaze softening considerably. Both women watched each other, neither saying a word, though Brenda nodded after a moment and House thought he saw her smile (enough of an oddity in itself to have its own circus sideshow).

Turning away, face instantly fierce, her voice boomed at some poor soul behind her, "Dr. Cuddy's not in here, you idiot! Learn to read the damn log!"

The door slammed and Cuddy sighed, running a hand through her hair. House could see the beginnings of _This was such a mistake_ starting to form on her features (again), lifted his cane onto his shoulder, twiddling it while holding out the bottle of ibuprofen—a peace offering. "Want me to head her off? Take her out before this hits the gossip ring? Probably too late to stop it from spreading through the clinic, but I can re-spark that rumor about your sex change operation for some damage control…."

"Thoughtful, but no." Cuddy smiled softly, popping the top off the ibuprofen. "She won't tell."

Women. It was best to just accept and not question.

But so long as _that_ was taken care of…. "Now remind me: what was it we were just discussing?"

Cuddy dry-swallowed two tablets—a woman after his own heart—moved to place the bottle back in its rightful place in the cabinet. "You getting back to clinic duty," she answered over her shoulder.

House smirked, tongue in his cheek. "You should say it like that more often."

"I'm serious."

Oh, yes, he could see that—hand on her hip and everything. He could also still feel the press of her mouth against his, hear that soft sound she had made: hunger and need and _oh God yes_….

"So am I. It's much more convincing than you trying to reverse-psychologize me by _fake_ handing-off patients. I know all your dirty tricks, woman."

She arched an eyebrow as if to say he didn't know the half of it, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to test those waters, treacherous and shark-infested though they may be. "You'll be in this clinic, _seeing patients_, until that waiting room is empty. I don't care how long it takes."

"Jeeeeez!" A much kinder exclamation than the one he'd been thinking. "You'd think doing the boss would—"

"I don't know where _you_ were just now, but whoever or whatever you were _doing_, it wasn't me."

"You'd think _making out_ with the boss," he amended, and she rolled her eyes but couldn't argue, "would score you a few extra perks."

He couldn't have more pointedly stared at the exact perks he had in mind if his eyes had jumped from his head and dived straight into her cleavage (and what a reconnaissance mission _that_ would be). And Cuddy was just too good—straightening up, back arching slightly so she had his full attention, even if it was locked below her neck.

She knew it, too—tone arch, almost playful. "You still want your extra ten dollars a patient or not? All the rules still apply—but right now, that's the only _perk_ you're getting."

That's what _she_ thought. It was time to turn the tables—he couldn't have her under the impression that she'd always get to be on top.

"Depends. Is the currency transferrable?"

"Into Canadian or Euros, yes," Cuddy answered without missing a beat, narrowing her eyes. "_Not_ into what you're thinking."

"Gotta admit—it's _much _better incentive." He was still trying for matter-of-fact as he took the few steps forward, sweeping aside half of her lab coat—it was really nothing more than window-dressing, and right now it was obstructing his view. "And it matches your décor."

She lifted his hand from her coat with two fingers and a look of disdain, letting go and watching it fall to his side. "If _this_—" Cuddy waved a hand, almost dismissively, encircling them both with the gesture. "—leads to anything—"

"When." A step towards her. "And sex. Again."

The images were slightly stuttered, flickering, like a Super-8 film: once too drunk to remember much more than the sloppy urgency and the mesmerizing way her hair had curled around his fingers… then, later, older—damned memorable, but written off as a foolish mistake (and, yes, still involving alcohol, but at least this time it hadn't come straight from the tap of a keg), and they had sworn that never _ever _again would they….

"_If_," Cuddy stressed, though even she didn't seem to believe it. "It's not going to be because of money or some twisted deal or alco…. Are you even listening? House?"

No, not really—her chest heaved when she spoke just like that (quick and self-righteous, a hint of anger).

"Nothing kinky. Got it."

"House…."

"Cuddy…." He mimicked her tone but softened it with an exaggerated sigh. His hand reached out, snaked under her lab coat and pulled her close beside him—not an embrace, exactly, but near enough—a strangely soft and intimate gesture until his hand took it upon itself to lower, squeezing her ass. "Eight o'clock. Your place or mine?"


End file.
